


citrus and cinnamon

by nishtabel



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alpha Dimitri, Canon-Typical Violence, Dubious Consent, Knotting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega Sylvain, Penis In Vagina Sex, Vaginal Sex, a/b/o dynamics, discussions of past rape/abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:33:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24049006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nishtabel/pseuds/nishtabel
Summary: When Sylvain’s village is raided by Lord Dimitri, his father bargains Sylvain’s life in exchange for his own. Upon capture, Sylvain finds himself the chosen heat companion of Faerghus’ Boar King.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 46
Kudos: 264
Collections: Omega Sylvain Week





	citrus and cinnamon

**Author's Note:**

> HAPPY OMEGA SYLVAIN WEEK!
> 
> **PLEASE MIND THE TAGS ON THIS ONE.** for more content warnings and a comprehensive summary (with spoilers) please see the end notes.
> 
> _please also note that in this fic, sylvain has a vagina. i use "cunt" and "cock" to describe it._
> 
> ALL OF THAT ASIDE, this fic was absolutely a labor of love--i cannot thank [socks](https://twitter.com/cockships) or [diana](https://twitter.com/letrasette) enough. i hope you all enjoy!

The only warning Sylvain’s village receives is the thundering of hooves, just before dusk.

Sylvain returns home to the sounds of screaming and wailing, fire licking through the thatched roof of his childhood home as his mother screams for her children. He doesn’t see his father, not immediately; it isn’t until he rounds the side of the burning house, sweat-soaked and dazed and limp, that he spies him. He is on his knees, shirt shredded at his back, whip-lines clear and fresh and oozing blood.

“My son,” he cries, and for a moment Sylvain thinks his father is speaking to him, begging for his help, until—“My son,” he says again, “I’ll give you my son, just let me go.”

Sylvain pauses only for a moment before running. He sprints into the fields behind his house, past the treeline and into the forest, inhaling deep, gasping breaths of smoke and ash as he struggles to keep his footing. _My son_ , he hears: _I’ll give you my son_.

Of course he would.

His run doesn’t last long, and there’s a part of him that knew he would fail. A hulking, beast of a man rears up on his left, a thundering shadow in the trees. Sylvain falls, ankle caught on the tangle of roots below his feet. As he sprawls to the forest floor, a heavy spear comes to rest between his shoulder blades. He does not try to stand.

“I believe,” says a low, rough voice behind him, “that you belong to me, now.”

* * *

They have always lived in fear of the Blaiddyd conquering armies. Even as a boy, not yet presented, he’d been held on his mother’s knee and spoon-fed tales of death and destruction, of the wild, bloody swath that the Blaiddyd king cut across the land. He left villages burning for days and took what he liked, before setting his army to the houses to search for food stores and valuables. The fear was constant, passed from grandmother to grandchild, the only universal truth. While they always rebuilt—always sweeping the ashes, rethatching a roof, battling other villages for a resident blacksmith—Sylvain was told that it was only a matter of time before the conquering king returned.

On Sylvain’s twenty-third birthday, he does.

* * *

Sylvain wakes slowly, in fits of awareness that struggle against his pounding temples. He thinks: he is somewhere warm, somewhere soft. He is sore, stiff, and utterly restless. He smells cinnamon and the acrid scent of dried blood.

“Welcome back,” someone says, and Sylvain turns his face towards their voice. There is a part of him that does not dare open his eyes. “We were worried you had left us.”

“Tried to run,” Sylvain replies through a mouth full of cotton. “Got caught.”

The same voice chuckles at his side. “Yes, you did.”

Sylvain doesn’t recognize the voice, though he struggles valiantly to place the softness of it, the airiness of the words. A slow, soothing rasp. He blinks, just once, just enough for light to flood his senses. Through the throbbing of his skull, he pieces the room together: stone walls, lined with dried herbs and crisp, yellow flowers; a simmering hearth across the room; a young woman, sweet and fair, who sits beside him. “Stayed caught, didn’t I,” he says.

The woman nods. “No one outruns Dimitri,” she says, sounding apologetic enough that Sylvain thinks she may be on his side. “You were lucky you survived.”

“Who—” He coughs, words sticking in his throat. He feels as though he’s not had a drink for three days. Perhaps he hasn’t. “Who brought me here?”

The woman smiles, wisps of golden hair sticking to her forehead in the smoky haze. “You were sent,” she says. There is a cool cloth in her hands, and she gently presses it to Sylvain’s forehead as she speaks. “Apparently, a deal was struck. You are to be mended and sent to the Keep at once.”

_A deal was struck_. Of course—Sylvain would not have been so lucky as to die during the raid. He had to live, in order to carry out his father’s bargain.

“Fuck,” he says, closing his eyes against the damp rag. It feels good, soft, almost soothing, even as the knowledge of his captivity begins to settle in his belly.

His caretaker giggles at his side, a sound that should be irritating but that soothes him nonetheless. “You will be well taken care of,” she says, wiping the sweat from his temples. “The king doesn’t often take consorts.”

Sylvain’s eyes flicker open. “What?”

The woman hums. “You’re only his fourth, since he took the throne. You’re quite lucky—the others were given to him on coronation.”

“Nice to know,” Sylvain mutters, “that the price of my father’s life is a single cunt.”

“It must be special, for the King to have struck a deal.” The rag disappears from his face, set to the side in favor of a cleaner one. The woman begins to clean his chest, slow and gentle. “It is a place of honor, you know. I think you will find he treats his consorts well.”

Sylvain snorts. “We’ll see, won’t we?”

* * *

Lord—King?—Dimitri keeps him waiting almost a full week. Sylvain supposes he should have expected as much, as a margrave’s son-turned-whore. He’s been scrubbed down more times than he can count, rubbed until his skin was red and raw, scented with imported oils and crushed flowers and every other manner of luxury. Most of them, he’s never seen; while he knows his way around mugwort and witch’s hazel, he’s certain that the vivid blue flowers that line his balcony—that have been stitched into his clothes, his bedsheets—are not native to the area.

He’s heard, of course, that the Blaiddyd conquerors are not from Sreng, but rather from a wild, southern territory, slowly fighting their way north and east of their homelands. They’ve been in Sreng for at least thirty years, and in that time have cut a swath of pillaging and bloodshed so broad and unpredictable, people hardly seem to remember the peaceful times that came before.

Then again, Sylvain supposes that they might never have been peaceful. Perhaps the Blaiddyd clans had simply driven out the former predators and settled into their place.

So: Dimitri, warlord and King of the Keep, locks Sylvain in the consort’s wing, orders him bathed twice a day, and refuses to visit for the first week.

Sylvain has just begun contemplating the length of his sheets—how many would he need to tie together, to escape from this tower?—when his captor arrives at his quarters. The knock is loud, echoing, sure of itself; it resounds against the thick oakwood of Sylvain’s chamber door.

After a beat of heavy silence, Sylvain calls, “Come in,” as though the man had any intention of waiting for Sylvain’s _permission_.

The door opens, more hesitantly than Sylvain would have imagined. Equally surprising is the man who steps through: Lord Dimitri, only this time in his blue regalia. Sylvain finds himself oddly swayed by him, and he knows it’s not by Dimitri’s perfume; it’s his stance, the regal curve of his back, the breadth of his shoulders. It’s the glint of light from golden buttons, the yawning lions embroidered on blue lapels.

Lord Dimitri pauses several feet from where Sylvain sits, and if Sylvain didn’t know any better, he’d think Dimitri might look—awkward. A bit out of place.

“Hello,” Sylvain greets, lips curling into a slow smile. He knows how Lord Dimitri expects him to act, because it is the way _all_ Alphas expect him to act. Quiet, easy, demure. Perhaps if he plays the role adequately, Dimitri will grow lax with him. Perhaps—

“When does your heat start?”

Sylvain is taken aback by the question, confused for a moment as to how Dimitri knows—but then again, Sylvain had been scrubbed from head to toe by his Dimitri’s servants, every orifice, every _hole_ , checked and prodded. Of course he knows.

“I—don’t know, your Highness,” Sylvain finally says. “I’ve been on suppressants since my presentation.”

Dimitri nods, face impassive. “When did you present?”

“Sixteen, your Highness.”

“A bit old,” Dimitri observes, and he’s not wrong. “We often know much earlier.”

_We_ , Sylvain thinks, _as in the Blaiddyds_. “Yes, well.” He swallows. “We did know. It’s hard to hide when you’re born with a gash between your thighs.” Dimitri’s face twists unpleasantly at this, but Sylvain continues. “I did my best to hide it, when I could. I knew what would happen once I presented.”

“Was your father not happy with your status?” Dimitri asks, quite calm.

Sylvain forgets himself, barking laughter. “My father was—goddess, how to describe him? He was a hard man to please. An omega like myself—” Sylvain gestures to himself with a sneer. “Well. I wasn’t a valid heir, was I? I was only good for producing one.”

Dimitri’s eyes narrow, and Sylvain feels some strange sympathy from him. He brushes it off.

Dimitri says, “Omegas are rare, here. Your father should have been pleased.”

Sylvain scoffs before he can stop himself, belatedly worried he might offend his captor. He’s doing a poor job at ingratiating himself. “Rare, sure,” he says, “but useful? Not terribly. Especially when I refused to get pregnant.” Sylvain realizes too late that he should have kept that fact to himself.

Dimitri cocks his head to one side, a gesture that seems oddly—innocent, almost playful. This is the first time that Sylvain has seen his hair _clean_ —in fact, this is the first time that he’s seen Dimitri since his capture. Dimitri wears his hair braided over one shoulder, long and silken, a smooth, black strip of leather knotted at the end. He looks—regal, Sylvain realizes, like a lord should. Like royalty should.

“Your family is...utilitarian,” Dimitri says, and Sylvain thinks perhaps he hears an accent in the lilt of Dimitri’s voice. Almost like words don’t come so easily to him. “You could have borne your family many children. Although—I suppose that’s what he wanted, isn’t it?”

In spite of himself, Sylvain feels his face heat. “It’s not what _I_ wanted,” he snaps, anxiety and shame bleeding into anger. “He tried to marry me off every season. I was— _betrothed_ to half the Alphas in the village, at some point. But I wasn’t…” He searches for a word that isn’t completely damning. Finally, he settles on: “obedient.”

Dimitri chuckles, a deep rumble. “You’ve been nothing but obedient, here,” he says, and goddess help him, but it feels almost like a joke. Like a challenge.

“I suppose I know my place, now,” says Sylvain. Is that what Dimitri wants to hear? “And—well. What do you want me to rebel against? The flowers, the gold? The three baths a day? Maybe the four-course breakfasts you’ve had delivered to my door every morning?”

“It is only right, for a consort to feel at ease.”

“‘Consort,’ huh?” Sylvain smiles, wry and tight. “Trying to loosen me up for later, huh?”

“‘Later’?” Dimitri asks.

Sylvain’s not stupid, but he would swear Dimitri’s face colors. He hopes it’s not in anger. “Yes.”

Dimitri shakes his head. “I have no need of you outside of my ruts,” he explains. “You are to be my heat companion.”

Sylvain’s heart thuds against his chest, frantic and wild. He feels the tips of his fingers begin to numb, his shoulders buzzing, anxiety hot against the nape of his neck. “A heat companion,” he repeats, as though tasting the words.

“You are my only omega consort,” Dimitri continues calmly, clearly. “The others were a gift from my uncle, who, unfortunately, did not consult my—tastes.”

“Your tastes.” Sylvain swallows. “And I am—to your tastes?”

Dimitri’s eyes flash, pupils dilating. Sylvain watches as Dimitri scents the air, an unconscious and instinctive act. Dimitri blinks, slowly, and when he opens his mouth to speak, the moment breaks. “Yes,” he says, voice hoarse. He coughs, just once. “You will do.”

“Good.” Sylvain is grateful to find he sounds much more composed than he feels. Then: “When is your next rut?”

“It is due to begin shortly after the solstice, so—” Dimitri appears to think. “Approximately eleven days.”

_Eleven days_.

* * *

Two days before Dimitri’s rut, he receives a visitor.

“I’m here,” the woman tells him, “to make sure that you’re adequately prepared for our Lord’s heat.”

The woman, who Sylvain now recognizes as the young healer who took care of him after his initial capture, shows up at his door shortly after lunch. (Time has very little meaning, now, and Sylvain has begun to measure the days in meals.) She is short, _petite_ , with long, blonde hair and a bright, genuine smile. In their time apart, Sylvain has grown to distrust her, and yet—when she arrives, sweet and unassuming at his chambers, he falls right back into their rapport.

“Well—” He pauses, opening the door a bit wider. “Come in, I suppose.”

She laughs politely, hiding her mouth behind her hand as she steps inside. Glancing around, she says, “It looks like you’ve made yourself at home.”

Sylvain follows her eyes, feeling a bit ashamed at the pile of last night’s clothes still on the floor beside his bed. “I wasn’t expecting company,” he explains. Part of him itches to begin cleaning, even as she stands beside him.

She waves him off, though. “Please don’t trouble yourself,” she says, and moves to sit lightly on the plush chair beside his bed. “I’m nothing more than a healer, you see. There’s no reason to treat me as a special guest.”

_But you are_ , Sylvain thinks, even as the more cynical part of his brain reminds him that she, just as the others in this Keep, is not to be trusted. She’s just so—so _kind_. Every part of her, every movement she makes, screams it: the way she tucks her hair over one shoulder, the way her eyes are always smiling. The way she crosses her ankles below her knees and looks perfectly at ease.

“Uh,” Sylvain starts, suddenly at a loss of what to do with himself. He settles for standing dumbly in the center of his room. “Well. I suppose we should begin, shouldn’t we? Prepping me, I mean.”

The healer nods. “Yes,” she says. “But first—I never introduced myself! I was so caught up in patching you up that I never had the chance.” She laughs again, and it feels like an apology. Sylvain can’t help but accept it. “My name is Mercedes, but you can call me Mercie. I’ve served Lord Dimitri for many years, although I am originally from Martritz.” She cocks her head. “You’ll find that many of us have similar stories.”

Sylvain knows an olive branch when he sees one, but his skin prickles at her use of _us_. He hums. “Were you sold by your father, too?” he asks, more venomous than he’d intended.

She shakes her head. “No,” she admits. “Not to Lord Dimitri, at least.”

Sylvain’s stomach sinks. “I—oh.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she says brightly. “As I said, it has been a long time, and I’m very happy here.”

_Happy_. The word feels unfamiliar on Sylvain’s tongue. “Right.”

Mercedes—Mercie?—clasps her hands in front of her. “Well then,” she says, “now that we’ve been introduced, let’s get started. Don’t worry—we’ll just be talking, for now. We’ll save the physical for last.”

Sylvain nods; Mercie smiles.

“Some of these questions may make you uncomfortable,” she warns, reaching for a bit of parchment and what looks like a long stick of charcoal. “Please know that that is not my intention, but that they are necessary in order to keep both you and Lord Dimitri safe during his rut.”

Sylvain nods again. “Understood,” he says, even as anxiety begins to buzz just below his skin. He glances around for a place to sit, trying not to wring his hands as he settles on the chaise in the corner.

Mercie kindly moves to face him, rotating the chair with her. “Good. Please make yourself comfortable, and we’ll begin.”

Sylvain shifts uncomfortably, placing his hands in his lap and anchoring himself through the soles of his feet. “Get on it with it, then,” he says.

“Good,” Mercie says again. “I’ll start with some of the harder ones. Were you previously mated? I didn’t see a mate mark, but betas don’t always leave one.”

Sylvain is thankful that she’s looking at her paper, rather than at him. He swallows. “No,” he answers. “I’ve never been—mated. Not officially.”

“Can you please elaborate?”

“I was betrothed, several times,” he says. “Even married, once. I—the mating didn’t take, and he sent me back.”

Mercie nods at her notes. “Was he an Alpha or a beta?”

“Alpha.” Sylvain coughs, struggling to clear his throat. “He was aggressive, as they usually are.” A derisive laugh. “I was due for a heat, but I—suppressed it.” It feels dirty, _wrong_ to admit it. He’d paid a fortune for it, too, and he doesn’t regret it, but—

“What did you take?” Mercie asks.

“Honestly? I don’t know. I didn’t ask. Just needed to know that it would work.”

Mercie pauses, pen moving rapidly across the page. Finally, she glances up. “I’m sorry you had that experience,” she says, and goddess damn him, but Sylvain believes her. “I know a little bit about suppressants, myself, and usually, there aren’t any lasting effects. Lord Dimitri mentioned you were on them for a while, though—can you tell me how long?”

A pause. “Almost seven years.”

Mercie blinks at him, the only sign that he’s taken her off-guard. “That long?” she whispers.

Sylvain shrugs. “Sometimes, you just—do what you have to do.”

He watches her brows tug up, pull together; she looks _sad_. “I’m very sorry, Sylvain.”

“Don’t. Don’t—don’t.” His throat is rapidly closing, tongue growing thick in his mouth. “It’s just what happened. What I did. It doesn’t—don’t treat it like it fucking matters.”

Slowly, she nods. “Very well,” she says, and relief floods Sylvain’s body. “We’ll continue.”

The rest of the questions are, to Sylvain’s relief, standard medical fare: “Were you born prematurely?” Mercie asks, followed by: “Were any of your siblings?” She asks, of course, if any of his family members died before old age; she asks if Sylvain is the only omega in his family. To all but the last, he answers, “No.”

“You’re the only omega?” Mercie asks. “I knew they were rare, but I thought there were usually at least two per family.”

Sylvain shrugs, a gesture that is becoming increasingly compulsive. “Both parents are betas,” he explains, and Mercie nods like she understands. Maybe she does.

“Also unusual,” she says, but writes it down anyway. “Betas can have a hard time conceiving.”

“I’m one of two,” Sylvain says. “Older brother—fucked off to goddess knows where, early on.”

Mercie looks at him sadly for a moment, before blinking twice and shuttering her expression. “I’m sorry for your loss,” she says.

Sylvain shakes his head. “Not a loss.”

Her lips purse, but she doesn’t press. “Was he a beta, too?”

Sylvain nods. “Parents were hoping for an Alpha, and I think for a while, they really thought he would be. He was big enough.” Laughter, sharp and humorless, spills from his mouth.

Mercie’s eyes appraise him, just for a moment. “You’re not exactly small,” she tells him, head cocked to one side. “In fact, size is not as correlative as people believe.”

“Should’ve told my father.”

Silence reigns for one, loaded second. Finally, Mercie clears her throat. Glancing down at her parchment, she says, “Just a few more questions, then, and then we’ll be done. How are you feeling?”

Sylvain pretends to think about it. He likes Mercie, he’s decided, but: “A bit like a stolen whore must feel, I think.”

To his surprise, Mercie hardly blinks. “Can you elaborate?”

“Just—” Sylvain sighs. _No_ , he wants to say. _No, I can’t_. Instead, he says, “Bad. Gross. Overexposed. A bit like a walking, talking cunt.”

Mercie looks at him. “I can understand that,” she says, and her voice is kind. “The circumstances of your— _employ_ here don’t escape my knowledge.”

“So formal,” Sylvain mutters.

“What I mean to say, Sylvain,” she continues, “is that I feel for you.” Sylvain must make a face, because she continues, “I know this is hard. And I bet there’s a part of you that wishes I would break the locks on your door and set you loose, let you wander the world freely without the leering eye of Lord Dimitri to follow you.” She sighs. Then, more firmly: “You do not have a home to return to. Your mother is dead. Your village was razed to the ground. You are an omega, unlucky and hunted in this world. Off of suppressants, you wouldn’t last a week.”

Revulsion rises like bile in Sylvain’s throat, face burning. “Better than playing housewife for the Beast of Faerghus,” he sneers.

“No,” says Mercie, soft voice still cutting. “It wouldn’t be.”

* * *

Sylvain is to be escorted to Lord Dimitri’s room shortly before dusk, dressed in soft silks and sweet oils and, for once, no jewelry. He’d been given the option to prepare beforehand, a large, unscented vial of oil left on his pillows, and he had _tried_ , but. He’s anxious, worried, crawling out of his skin with nerves; the soft flesh of his cunt sits dry, tugging unpleasantly beneath his thumb. He thinks—it’s hurt before, it’ll hurt again. Maybe it’s better if it does. A very quiet part of him whispers: _what’s the point of trying to enjoy it?_

And so he sits. He sits, and he waits, and he hides the green vial away from himself and his nervous fingers. He sits, and thinks about the fact that this will only happen four times a year. How he’ll be free to do what he wants for the rest. How he’s been taking a contraceptive mix of putrid herbs and questionable magic for the last seven days; how Mercie had slipped him a sponge last night, with very detailed instructions on how to insert it.

Sylvain will not be tied down by this. He will show up, because he has to, and he will lie with Dimitri, because he has to—but he will not enjoy it, will not beg for it, will not close his eyes and be bred. He will do what he must, and nothing more.

Two guards knock on his door, just as the sun begins to slip past the horizon. They’re kinder to him, gentler with him, than he expects, and there’s a deep, animal part of him that hates them for it. Nevertheless, he follows.

For all of the preparatory measures Sylvain has gone through—for all that Mercie has tugged and poked and prodded at him, for all the questions he’s been forced to answer—he has not seen Lord Dimitri’s quarters. Dimitri sleeps in a separate wing of the Keep, well-guarded and hidden beyond a maze of dim hallways and spiraling staircases. Sylvain grows more nervous with each step, sharp and cold and echoed by the twin footsteps of the guards who guide him. He thinks: _I couldn’t make it back alone._ He wouldn’t know the way. All the walls look the same, each sconce rusted and worn, the thin windows barely wide enough to see through. Now, more than ever, Sylvain feels trapped.

They round a final corner, and it’s the scent that hits him first. Sweet, almost cloying, it chokes the air around them, hanging on Sylvain’s tongue like honey. Each time he breathes, it soaks his lungs: he feels as though he’s drowning, light-headed, throat burning against the weight of it. He’s smelled an Alpha’s rut before, but never like this: never with promise, with _heat_ , a heavy weight that curls around him and cinches at his waist, in his belly. It is all-encompassing, and Sylvain feels himself tipped forward, lips parted, mouth open to scent the air.

It—isn’t what Sylvain expects.

The guards catch him, one at each elbow, and their touch is an electric current beneath his skin. The shiver that builds below his skull is bright, a burst of sensation that surges down his spine and settles in his gut. He finds himself panting, held up only by the strength of the guards, and each desperate breath wraps him, binds him in the scent of cinnamon, honey, _Dimitri_. It burns against the back of his throat, just as his face, his chest, his hands all burn—to touch, to be touched, to grab to hold to claim to _lay_.

A low whine fills the hall, desperate and high. Everything is hot, too hot, scalding where Sylvain’s guards touch him, where they place a palm at his cheek and a hand at his waist. His legs shake, weak and buckling, and it isn’t until he sees a guard’s face before him—concerned, gentle, pale color on pale cheeks, gold and bright—that he’s able to pull his attention to something other than his own building fever.

Her eyes. He focuses on her eyes. They seem endless, where they search his own. “Hot,” Sylvain says, pants, and sways against the shoulder of his other guard.

Green eyes leave his for a moment, only a moment, and Sylvain is adrift. Vaguely, he hears someone whisper, “ _heat_ ,” and a murmured reply of “ _suppressants_ ” and “ _mercy_.”

“Off suppressants,” Sylvain supplies, trying to be helpful. Something cool and smooth touches his forehead, slick with sweat and burning. He leans in. “’S a bad time for me to get sick. Supposed to fuck the king tonight.”

“Oh, Sylvain,” says the blond voice, the green-eyed voice, “you’re not sick.”

Even through the fog of it, Sylvain’s pulse begins to race. Panic clears his mind, if only for a moment. Slowly, as though his thoughts are moving through molasses, he remembers: _off suppressants_. This is the first time he’s been off suppressants in years; Mercedes had asked him specifically. She knew, and she must have told Lord Dimitri—they must all know—

“You—” He tries to point accusingly, but mostly he feels pathetic. Stupid. “Which one of you— _who drugged me_?”

The eyes that stare back at him are sad. “No one,” they say, and Sylvain hears them in unison. They’re both liars, he knows it—there’s no way he would enter a heat so quickly, so suddenly. They’re lying to him, and he has no power to stop them.

Each guard keeps a hand on his arm as they face each other. “I’ve never seen this before,” says one, as the other shakes her head.

“It _can_ happen,” she says, and Sylvain wants to know: what, _what_ can happen? What the fuck have they done—

“That’s supposed to be—”

“Fairytale stuff, I know.”

“So why is it happening now? Should we even—”

“Ashe,” says the woman, voice more dangerous than her grip on Sylvain’s arm. “Do you remember what happened to his Highness last time he had a rut like this?”

“Well, yes—”

“Then we’ll get Mercie in the morning.”

“Like hell you will,” Sylvain snarls, pulling frantically against their strong grip. Neither one lets go, even as they both face him with pity in their eyes. He feels disgusting, weak. He feels fucking pathetic. He hasn’t felt like this in years, hasn’t been betrayed by his body so horrendously since he was sixteen. He’d gone into heat for a solid week, whimpering and whining and crying into his bed, the itching of his skin never ceasing. He remembers it so clearly now: the rough scratch of his clothes against his feverish body, the way he’d jittered and howled and clawed his arms bloody in an attempt to soothe the overwhelming feeling of being too big for his skin. He’d soaked the sheets, come on his fingers more time than he could count, and each orgasm brought more pain, more longing, more all-consuming emptiness.

It was the first and only time he’d gone through a heat. Even without the threat of his father selling Sylvain’s body for gold, for status—Sylvain swore he would never again allow himself to be so vulnerable.

He realizes now that he’s failed.

Slowly, painfully, Sylvain returns to his body. There are tears on his cheeks; his throat is raw and his breath comes ragged. To his surprise, only one guard remains before him.

“Listen,” says the guard, and it must be the pheromones, Sylvain’s traitorous hormones, because he looks genuinely apologetic. “Mercedes—told us to be gentle with you. She said you’d been through a lot.”

Sylvain feels his teeth grit and grind, almost relieved when the guard takes a tentative step back. Good: they see him as a threat.

“She didn’t mention specifics,” the guard continues, both hands raised. It’s placating, Sylvain realizes: not quite a surrender, but a generous display nonetheless. Hesitantly, nervously, Sylvain feels his hackles lower. His eyes never leave the guard. “But—she did say that you might...panic.”

Sylvain snarls. “You drugged me,” he accuses again.

“We didn’t drug you,” the guard says, exasperated. His eyebrows are drawn high on his forehead. “I—I swear. We would never. His Highness—Dimitri—he wouldn’t dream of it.”

“He captured me,” Sylvain says, “ripped me from my home just so he could _fuck me_. You think he wouldn’t drug me? His little omega bitch?”

The guard winces, eyes darting briefly to the ground. “It’s not about that,” the guard tries. “You’re not—” The guard huffs, clearly frustrated and searching for words. “You _are_ an omega, but it’s not about that. I swear. He doesn’t—he’s never cared about that. He wouldn’t _do_ that.”

“Easy for you to say,” Sylvain sneers. His head pulses with anger, even as his cunt throbs between his legs. His fury will only win him so much ground against his heat. “You have no idea—”

“You’re not the only one!” the guard cries. Sylvain takes his anger, appreciates it more than his pity. “Goddess, listen to me. Please. As—as another omega.” A pause, a mild shift back. “Alright?”

Sylvain blinks. “Why the fuck would he send an omega guard to escort me to his rooms?”

“Because,” the guard says slowly, “I earned it.”

“What,” Sylvain scoffs, “are you supposed to join in on the _fun_?”

And goddess fuck them all, but the guard blushes. “No, I—” A deep, steadying breath. “It’s not like that here. I know Mercie tried to tell you, but she can be hard to read. And I thought—maybe it might be easier to hear it from another omega. To—to see it.” He gestures to himself, to his embroidered blue cape. The gold stitching reflects in the lamplight. “I am a guard because his Highness wanted me to be. He didn’t care about my status.”

“And I am a whore because your king bought me from my father,” Sylvain says, vindicated by the crumpled look on the guard’s face. “Don’t presume to know me, guard.”

Even still—Sylvain considers the guard’s words, turning them over in his head as a sick kind of dread begins to color their edges. He looks carefully at the guard in front of him: a boy, younger than Sylvain, wearing fitted silver armor and a beautiful sleek bow. Maybe he has earned this—maybe he _earned_ the right to carry himself with purpose, to know and charge his own independence. Maybe he’s telling the truth, and maybe Sylvain wasn’t ripped from his village because he’s an omega whore. Maybe Lord Dimitri doesn’t care about that.

Maybe all of it is true—but that doesn’t change the fact that Sylvain _is_ an omega whore, being escorted like a bitch in heat to his master’s kennel.

Sylvain’s vision begins to swim again, his skin prickling as he sways in the building fog of his heat. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth, panic clinging coldly to the edges of his mind. When he opens his mouth to speak, he tastes Dimitri on his tongue. “If you’d like to save the sorry maidservant from scrubbing my slick from the floor, I suggest you get my to your lord’s chambers.”

Slowly, the guard nods. “As you wish,” he says, and what little victory Sylvain had felt before now flees him, swept away by the disappointment in the guard’s voice.

Sylvain grits his teeth as the second guard approaches from his left, face impassive and stony. He understands why she left the more sympathetic work to her partner—he doubts she would be terribly compassionate.

The door to Lord Dimitri’s room is clear, even in the low lamplight. It’s heavy and dark, framed with weighty blue tapestry. Twin lions face each other just below the arch, mouths open in a gruesome show of teeth.

The omega guard knocks, as though Dimitri wouldn’t have heard them approaching. Perhaps he’s too far gone for that, Sylvain thinks. Perhaps he’s already rutting like an animal against the plush velvet of his royal blankets.

“Come in,” calls a voice, deep and reverberating. Sylvain feels it in his skull, in the wet heat that curls ever tighter in his gut. Already Dimitri’s scent sits thick in Sylvain’s mouth; each breath, each desperate, shaking gulp of air brings the syrupy smell of cinnamon, of honey, of musk. Whatever anger he’d felt before—whatever panic, whatever mind-numbing anxiety he’d been clinging to—grows more and more distant.

The guard knocks once more, before opening the door. They enter into a palatial room, high ceilings dancing with warm, flickering lights, stone floor lined with plush rugs and furs. They escort him in, one at each elbow, and Sylvain thinks—this isn’t how it was supposed to happen. His body sings with anticipation, thoughts coiling tight around the promise of being satisfied, _satiated_.

But with the opening of the door comes a fresh wave of honey, of sweet mint and damp soil. He basks in it, yearns for it, feels his skin prickle with the desire to slip to his knees and roll in it. The heat coiled in his belly is nearly unbearable, deafening against the thoughts that stir in his mind. He is a heat companion for the king—for Lord Dimitri—Dimitri—Dimitri—

—stands before him in a loose white tunic, ties undone and open against his chest. A litany of scars crowd his chest, Sylvain can see that much, and if it weren’t for the hand at his shoulder he’d find himself dipping, falling forward—

—“ _triggered a heat, my lord_ ,” someone says, and, oh—

—“ _leave us_.”

Sylvain sways when the arm leaves his shoulder, when the presence at his back disappears, and then: silence, but for the pounding of his heart, the throbbing and aching of his cunt, a loud, physical thing. A beast of a feeling.

“Sylvain,” Dimitri says, and Sylvain feels his head tip back, up, chin lifting as he searches for Dimitri’s eyes, blazing blue against the pale of his face. It’s instinctive, natural, _easy_ to bear his throat, lips parting in a gasp when Dimitri growls. It’s—

“Sylvain Gautier, reporting for duty,” Sylvain says, whispers, whines, voice cracked down the center, splintering.

Dimitri hums, and it fills the room. Sylvain sways forward, drawn to the bulk of him, the rough outline of his heated body—longs to sink his hands, his teeth, his very core into the wild rapture of him. A part of him shutters, stiffens at the thought, a thin, hairline fracture cracking down the delicate swell of his confidence. He was brought here on purpose, brought here to be used and taken—brought here, to the King’s quarters, to be fucked like a rag doll, an open, pliant whore for the Wild Boar—

“—drugged me,” Sylvain hears himself slur, even as his senses thrill with the weight of Dimitri’s hand on his cheek. “You said—you needed a heat companion, and here I am—dripping just for you—” Each word is harder than the last, spoken through clenched teeth.

Dimitri’s thumb is hot against his face, damp and soothing. He’s brushing away tears, Sylvain realizes. “I didn’t drug you,” Dimitri murmurs, and _goddess_ but his voice, laced with the dark threat of his rut, curls deep and warm in Sylvain’s gut. “This is—this can happen, sometimes.” He sounds so calm, so cool, even as the scent of him clings desperately to the roof of Sylvain’s mouth, the back of his throat. Sylvain struggles to keep his mind focused, his thoughts straight; he doesn’t want this, never wanted it, has spent his life fighting against it—

“—should send you back,” Dimitri is murmuring, hand disappearing from Sylvain’s face. “I—shit.” Quieter, now. Further away. “Mercedes warned you, Dimitri, you _fool_ —”

Sylvain’s body flairs with shame, regret—something akin to humiliation. His heart sinks at the mention of Mercedes, his one ally in this mess. _She thought I wasn’t up to it_ , he realizes, heart stuttering in his chest. _She told—she told Dimitri._ The crushing weight of rejection slams into him, and with his knees already weak, he feels himself slither to the floor.

“Don’t,” he pleads in a broken whisper. “Don’t send me back.” Mercie’s face swims before his eyes, pitying and sorrowful. _It wouldn’t be better_ , she says. _You’re safer here_.

He thinks, then, of his father: bloodied and bruised, back lashed with whip scars only just begun to heal. He thinks of how quick his father had been to offer up Sylvain’s life in exchange for his own. He thinks of how sweet vengeance would taste.

Forcing himself to look up, Sylvain meets the burning blue of Dimitri’s eyes. “Don’t send me back,” he says again, stronger now. There’s no way he can stand, but—he juts the curve of his jaw towards Dimitri, an errant display of confidence. “You brought me here for a reason. _Use me_.”

Sylvain doesn’t miss the way Dimitri’s eyes darken, the way his pupils expand until there is only a thin yarn of blue to ignite Sylvain’s blood. He swallows, mouth suddenly dry, even as Dimitri stalks forward on unsteady feet. A long, fraught pause stretches between them, before Dimitri finally kneels in front of him. The smell of him grows impossibly thicker, and Sylvain’s mouth hangs open to scent the air.

“You are to be my consort,” Dimitri says, a growl laced through his voice. There’s something—animal in it, something increasingly feral. The hair at the base of Sylvain’s neck stands on end, even as his cunt clenches between his legs. “My heat companion. I—” An audible swallow, a clearing of his throat. “I _will_ keep you safe,” Dimitri says, and the conviction in his voice, the truth of it, nearly bowls Sylvain over.

“A tough promise to keep,” Sylvain murmurs, licking his lips. His thighs are slick, sticky where they press together. Dimitri is so _close_.

Dimitri straightens, even as he remains on his knees. He towers over Sylvain, all broad shoulders and wild hair, teeth flashing sharp and white in the firelight. “I had you pinned against the dirt,” he says, “lance between your shoulder blades, and no harm came to you. Your father offered up your _life_ , and I chose— _I chose_ —to make you mine.”

Oh, how Sylvain wants to believe him—how he wants to loose the tension in his shoulders, allow Dimitri’s hand to push his head underwater. He wants to drown in the sweet honey of Dimitri’s words.

Dimitri leans forward, one palm on either side of Sylvain’s face. “Let me,” he says, and for all of his bravado, all of his Alpha strength and power and finesse—he sounds so painfully human, so weak on his knees before Sylvain.

Sylvain sways. His eyes flutter shut, lashes damp against his cheeks. How easy it would be to submit.

After a long moment, Sylvain opens his eyes. His body burns so close to Dimitri’s, a flame that climbs higher by the moment. He feels—lost. Empty.

“Use me, my lord,” he says again, an echo of his earlier words. “Take me. _Fuck me_ , Dimitri.”

Slowly, through the wild racing of Sylvain’s heart, Dimitri nods. “Yes,” he breathes, the growl returning to his voice. “Yes. I will.”

After a moment’s hesitation, the air stagnant between them, Dimitri leans close to pull Sylvain into his arms. The touch is scalding, overwhelming, and this close, Sylvain is positive Dimitri can smell the wetness between his legs. Dimitri noses his temple, his cheek, his ear, big hands flat against Sylvains back as Dimitri scents him. It’s—intimate, tender, and the gentle graze of Dimitri’s lips over his throat has Sylvain keening. The sound is high, foreign, uncontrollable; his mind is slipping from him, touch by delicate touch.

“I would have you on the bed,” Dimitri murmurs, pointed teeth baring lightly down against Sylvain’s scent gland. “I would have you comfortable.”

_A bit too late for that_ , Sylvain thinks, knees aching against the hard floor. He’s been kneeling for—how long? Waiting for Dimitri to make up his mind, to take him, to use him like he promised he would—

The earth disappears from beneath Sylvain, strong arms circling his waist and beneath his bent knees. He means to complain, opens his mouth to do so, but all that comes out is an airy whine as Sylvain’s hands scrabble around Dimitri’s shoulders. “Warn me next time,” he says, even as his body shudders against the heat of Dimitri’s chest.

_Strong_ , he thinks, delirious. _Thick. Sturdy._ A part of him even goes so far as to suggest, _Reliable._ A dangerous longing is awakening in him, thick and molten in his core—he feels himself evaluating Dimitri’s strength, his smile, the pull of his scent. He sees himself full of pups, holding them, raising them—fat and blond and sweet, cherished and loved—he sees Dimitri with them, tall and broad, laughing as he chases them through the courtyard—

His back hits the bed, and the vision scatters. It’s a trick, always a trick, dirty and cruel and teasing Sylvain with something he will never have. He’s felt it only twice before, this overwhelming desire to breed, and this time is no less unsettling.

Dimitri’s face hovers over his own, eyes wide and questing. His tongue peeks out from between his lips, pink and soft, and Sylvain’s eyes follow it with a hunger that’s quickly consuming him.

“Do lords kiss their consorts?” Dimitri wonders aloud, and Sylvain feels himself blush.

“Are you expecting me to answer that?” Sylvain asks, even as his face tilts up towards Dimitri’s, lips parting in invitation. It feels—right. It’s easy.

Dimitri hums, a vibration that Sylvain feels down in his pelvis. “I suppose not,” Dimitri says, before gently, almost sweetly, pressing a kiss to Sylvain’s mouth.

It’s supposed to be chaste, Sylvain thinks. It’s supposed to be a peace offering. Sylvain knows this, he does, but he finds himself melting into it, unbidden and unreserved. His mouth opens beneath Dimitri’s in a way that he can only describe as _whorish_ : it’s lewd, utterly wanton. It is, in every way, how an omega should react to his Alpha.

Sylvain is rapidly forgetting to care.

Dimitri licks into his mouth, tongue hot against Sylvain’s own, and the moan that erupts from Sylvain’s mouth is shameful. It seems to spur Dimitri on: Dimitri’s hand cups the side of his face, tilts his head so that the angle is deeper, better. Every pause for breath is stolen, hot air puffed between them before Dimitri _whines_ and kisses him harder. The full weight of his body is pressed against the length of Sylvain’s, and each shift rubs his cock against Sylvain’s thigh, an iron brand.

Finally, Dimitri pulls back—and while Sylvain gasps for air, his body shakes at the loss. Already he can feel his body _open_ , a mindless begging to be stuffed and bred; it’s maddening, the way his cunt clenches wildly, desperately. He feels he could take the whole of Dimitri’s cock without much preparation.

“Clothes—off,” Sylvain says, before he can stop himself. A soft voice, sequestered to the back of his mind, reprimands him: he should not make orders of his king. The shame of it forgets to hit him, though, and Dimitri simply nods, shaggy hair bobbing around his face.

Dimitri pulls back, sits up, plants his knees on either side of Sylvain’s hips. The tunic comes off easily, and Sylvain hates himself for drinking in the rippling expanse of Dimitri’s chest. He was right, earlier, even though it feels like a distant memory: Dimitri’s body is littered with scars, each one more gruesome than the last. Even the flesh between his worst scars—the one that curves over his left shoulder, vicious and knotted, or the one the carves an X just above his right nipple—is littered with long, silvery lines, old wounds that never quite healed.

Sylvain’s mouth waters.

“Pants,” he says, demanding. Not even his own shame can stop him now. It flickers at the base of his skull, but has no more body to it than smoke.

Dimitri grunts, acquiesces. He slithers from the bed, fingers fumbling at the drawstrings of his trousers. Even with more space between them, Sylvain can feel the tension between their bodies continue to spike. It’s almost painful, like a dull ache, to have Dimitri so far away from him.

Dimitri straddles him again, thick cock hanging between his muscled thighs. It’s—goddess, but it’s fucking huge, and Sylvain can see the knot already threatening to swell at the base. His cunt releases another rush of slick at the sight of it. His trousers must be soaked by now.

“Lift your arms,” Dimitri murmurs, and Sylvain sneers as he does. Dimitri strips him of his tunic, tosses across the room, fingers at Sylvain’s laces before his shirt hits the ground. “Hips up.”

The surge of cool air against Sylvain’s feverish skin is _heavenly_. He can feel the slick of his cunt pull and snap from the crotch of his trousers, wet against his thighs.

Dimitri drops Sylvain’s pants over the side of the bed, before reaching one warm, callused palm between Sylvain’s legs. He drags a single finger through the wetness that coats Sylvain’s thighs, groaning when Sylvain’s legs automatically fall open. He bends, chases his hand with his mouth, and Sylvain should hate it but his head snaps back, a wail tearing itself from his lips as Dimitri presses hot, open-mouthed kisses to the sweltering flesh of his inner thighs.

“Fuck,” Sylvain breathes, because he’s never had a pretty mouth, and Dimitri’s isn’t any prettier. Each swipe of his tongue brings him closer to Sylvain’s core, fluttering and aching, the only part of him that _matters_. “Fuck—”

Dimitri tongue presses between his folds, smooth and wet and utterly silken. Sylvain feels himself part easily, cock throbbing with each puff of Dimitri’s breath against him. It’s—oddly gentle, almost sweet, and Sylvain finds one hand fisted in Dimitri’s hair before he can stop himself. He wants—goddess, but he wants Dimitri to gorge himself, to lick Sylvain open until there’s not space left between them, until Sylvain is riding Dimitri’s face through orgasm after orgasm—

“Pardon me,” Dimitri says, and even his voice is wet. Sylvain wants to wave him off, to ask him _why he’s still talking_ , but then Dimitri shoves two fingers inside of him, and words become very, very hard. The worst-best part is that Sylvain takes two fingers so easily, so mindlessly—they’re nothing close to what he needs to get him through this, to ease the heat that builds in his belly, his chest, rapidly cresting through his entire body. He wants—he _wants_.

Dimitri’s third fingers slips in with little resistance, even as he scissors them. The sound of it is lewd, absolutely disgusting, a rhythmic _schlck_ that has Sylvain clenching desperately around Dimitri’s fingers.

“You’re so—open,” Dimitri breathes, and when Sylvain glances down, Dimitri’s eyes are wide, fixed on where his fingers repeatedly disappear inside of Sylvain swollen cunt. “So wet. I never thought—”

A new kind of frustration builds within Sylvain, unfamiliar and undeniable. “Up,” he snarls, even as his voice breaks. “You brought me here for a reason. It’s not nice to tease your guests.”

The sway, the _command_ Sylvain has over Dimitri is almost worth the emptiness that his fingers leave behind. Dimitri surges upwards, rabid, face slick and wet and dripping. His pupils are blown, his lips pink and swollen. He’s nothing like the man who ripped Sylvain from the forest, lance at his back.

“You made a promise, your Highness,” Sylvain says, rolling his hips against Dimitri’s. In this moment, he is powerful. “Do you remember what it was?” He watches Dimitri swallow, follows the bob of his throat with hungry eyes. He keeps one hand fisted in Dimitri’s hair, a promise and a threat.

“I will fuck you,” Dimitri whispers, a broken man. “Let me fuck you.”

“Mm,” Sylvain hums. “Good boy.”

He pulls Dimitri down.

Everything about Dimitri is big: shoulders, chest, hands, cock. Sylvain can feel threatening swell of his knot as it slips against him, blunt and scalding and dripping with Sylvain’s own slick. There’s a part of him that’s scared, terrified, horrified at the idea that Dimitri could—would— _will_ —slip inside of him, a perfect, aching fit, and stretch him until he sobs, split open on the knot of the man who keeps him, owns him, undoes him. There is a part of him that protests, that pulls away even as Dimitri grazes sharp teeth against the thudding pulse of his neck, the tender swell of his scent gland. It is the same part that cowers in the mirror, that curses Sylvain for who he is, what he is, a lone, sorry bastard with a cunt between his legs—

But Dimitri surges against him, whimpers like a dog where he ruts against his thigh—and there is a part of Sylvain, a growing part of him, perhaps a stronger part of him, that implores Sylvain to spread his legs, bare his throat, and beg Dimitri to sheath himself within the quivering, wet mess of his cunt.

It would be so easy to— _submit_. Sylvain’s body sings at the thought, thrills at it, throws his head back and groans with it. The call of Dimitri’s rut is unlike any he’s ever felt, and surely that’s natural, surely it’s because—because it’s _biological_ —

Sylvain feels melty, gooey around the edges, the single remaining cord of rational thought saying: _He’s waiting for your permission_. The thought terrifies him, shakes him, sends a trembling through his thighs entirely at odds with the slick that coats them. If he’s in a heat—that’s what this is, right? a heat?—then the scent of him must be overpowering, sickeningly sweet, a beacon for both betas and Alphas. _Alphas_ , one of whom is directly next to him, on top of him, mewling like a kicked puppy.

The entire bulk of Dimitri’s scarred frame shakes with exertion. It feels good, warm, hot, where it slides against him, and goddess but his brain is a mess, each thought more tenuous than the last. He squirms beneath Dimitri, spreads his legs, arches his back when his mind screams _yes, yes, go—open open open open open—_

Dimitri’s breath is hot on Sylvain’s throat, a broken whimper. “Sylvain,” Dimitri huffs, all command gone from his voice. “Sylvain, Sylvain, I—” A deep stuttering growl rises in his chest, one of deep frustration and longing. Dimitri’s cock slides thick and heavy between Sylvain’s thighs. “Don’t make me beg—”

_Beg_ , Sylvain thinks, mind empty but for that one word. A single thought. An urge, an epiphany, a blessed revelation—

“Not tonight, your Grace,” he hears himself murmur, even as his mind screams for it, rails for it, a chorus of _beg beg beg beg beg beg make him beg make him work he should KNEEL—_

A shift of his thighs, just a little wider, and the arch of his back—the offering of his dripping cunt, desperately swollen and clenching around the promise of Dimitri’s knot. “Fuck me, your Highness,” Sylvain says, demands, and, oh—

There is always a risk, Sylvain has heard, of getting lost in the high of one’s heats: to think of nothing but the slick, wet-hot slide of it, the carnal pleasure of it, the enormous, feral instinct of it. Mates awake to bites and scratches, bruises on their hips, lips swollen and tongues bitten and bellies still full for days. It’s always scared Sylvain, the idea that he could wake up, days later, to an aching, pliant body, still raw and open and whining for his Alpha’s cock. Sylvain will not mate: he will _conquer_.

The moment Dimitri pushes into him—the moment the thick head of his cock pushes past Sylvain’s aching folds to spear him open, Sylvain realizes what it is to be heat-drunk. It is a fullness unlike Sylvain has ever known, a wild elation that sings in his very blood. It is—all-consuming, ripping the air from his lungs as though Dimitri’s cock sits lodged between them, a permanent part of his body. Sylvain feels his cunt shudder around Dimitri, a rhythmic kneading that longs to bring him in, bring him _deeper_ , pull him so far in that he can never leave.

Dimitri whines, a low keen that sounds so very animal that Sylvain is sure he doesn’t know he’s making it. He begins to thrust, slowly at first, and for a very brief moment, Sylvain is grateful—he needs to adjust, needs to learn to breathe around the monster of a cock Dimitri has shoved inside of him.

Adjustment comes faster than he expects, however, and Sylvain finds himself panting and wriggling against Dimitri’s broad chest, desperate for more. “ _Fuck me_ ,” he hisses, breath still coming ragged as his body clenches firmly around Dimitri’s cock. “Fuck me, fuck me, you _said you would_ —”

There’s a roar and a crack, and Sylvain finds himself flipped on his belly to face the mattress. His cunt dribbles slick between his legs, winking lewdly at Dimitri before Dimitri finally, blessedly, pushes back in. The angle is better this way, deeper, more—more _permanent_ , like Dimitri’s shoved his way inside and intends to stay. He fucks Sylvain hard, fucks him like the bitch he is, growling each time the swelling of his knot catches on the slippery rim of Sylvain’s cunt.

It’s dangerous, the feeling that comes to rise in Sylvain’s chest: inexplicable, unnameable, Sylvain feels his body glow beneath Dimitri’s big hands, melting limp and sweet even as the pressure in his gut winds ever tighter. This is the life he was meant to have, a part of him whispers; loved and cherished, well-fucked and held above every other omega. This is how he wins, he thinks.

Dimitri’s mouth is at his neck, lips warm and soft and wet against the thudding of his heartbeat. The pressure against his scent gland feels good, terribly so, and Sylvain tells him so—“Dimitri,” he cries, even as his cheek rubs against the silk of his pillows, “Dimitri—A-alpha—”

He’ll curse himself for that later, that errant slip of his tongue, but it gets him what he wants. Dimitri’s teeth tease sharp around his swollen gland, soothing in the way only a mate’s should be. He must know not to bite, must know what it would mean—and there’s a part of Sylvain that hates it, riots at it, wants to buck Dimitri off and _run_ —

But Sylvain is lost, broken, and he hears himself beg and plead and whisper promises he _probably, hopefully_ doesn’t mean. One shaking hand curls itself in Dimitri’s long hair, tugs Dimitri’s face back to Sylvain’s throat, and when Sylvain demands, “Bite me, _please_ ,” Dimitri obeys.

Sylvain reaches his first peak when Dimitri’s teeth break skin; he curses and hisses and ruts hard against Dimitri’s cock, peaking again hardly thirty seconds later when Dimitri’s knot catches. It swells inside of him, locking them together so tightly that Sylvain feels tears slip down his face, wet with emotion. It’s the first knot he’s ever taken, the first time he’s ever been _tied_ , and there is a horrible, desperate part of him that wonders why he ever fought so hard against it.

Slowly, sweetly, Dimitri unlocks his jaw from around Sylvain’s throat. Without the high of orgasm to muddle it, the bite stings; Dimitri laves his tongue over it in an attempt to soothe it. Sylvain whimpers, torn between leaning in and pulling away, overwhelmed by the scent of blood and heat and _them_.

Dimitri rearranges their bodies, careful not to jostle Sylvain too much. His knot slips and catches against the oversensitive rim of Sylvain’s cunt with each shift, and by the time they’re lying on their sides, Sylvain finds himself pushing weakly back against Dimitri’s chest.

“Please,” he whispers, broken. “I—”

Dimitri’s mouth presses hot against his ear, almost comforting. “Shh,” he whispers, “I’ve got you.”

Sylvain is crying openly now, tears hot against his cheeks as Dimitri begins to rock gently into him. He can’t move far, knot so swollen and thick against him, but Sylvain’s so overstimulated it hardly matters. Dimitri’s hand slips between their bodies to rub at the puffy lips of Sylvain’s cunt, gathering slick before circling Sylvain’s throbbing cock. It’s a soft, barely-there touch, wet and slick and so gentle Sylvain nearly falls apart.

He hiccups through his final orgasm, shuddering and writhing on Dimitri’s knot. Dimitri holds him through it, arms wrapped tight around his chest, face buried in his neck. Sylvain allows this, allows him: Dimitri’s nose against his tender scent gland, hands warm on his belly and chest.

He trips into sleep, soothed by the syncing of his heartbeat with Dimitri’s.

* * *

Dimitri’s rut lasts five days; Sylvain stays an extra two to ride out his heat. He always wakes sluggishly, limbs sore and mind blank, curled against the heat of his Alpha. The memory of Dimitri’s knot is still vivid enough to keep Sylvain’s disdain at bay—until his heat ends, Dimitri is his. His body knows no other way.

On the seventh day, Dimitri wakes him up with a kiss to the forehead and such a spread of food that Sylvain wonders if he’s not all stomach. He knows he’s eaten—he must have, right?—but the deep rumble of his belly is almost enough to send him into a frenzy. Sylvain whines, just a little; his whole body protests as he tries to sit up, spine cracking from his neck to his tailbone. The ache is bone-deep, an animal kind of satisfaction that soothes him even as he moves to complain.

“Water,” he says, voice weak. Any part of him that may have shriveled at ordering Lord Dimitri has been well-fucked into submission. Dimitri hands him water, and Sylvain swallows it down in a single drink. “Water,” he says again, and Dimitri’s hands brush his as he takes the goblet.

Sylvain drinks four glasses before his throat stops stinging. Slowly, he turns to face the food. It’s—overwhelming, in its magnitude and variety. The kitchens have brought them everything from fresh fruit to candied ham, seared fish and venison and little tarts that Sylvain couldn’t begin to name. The opulence startles him, and even as his stomach growls, he finds himself turning away.

“Feed me, your Highness,” he says instead, pleased when Dimitri hurries to do just that.

Dimitri feeds him bite by bite, holding delicate cuts of meat and fat to his lips for Sylvain to suckle from his fingers. Dimitri follows the meat with jam, spread thick over the best bread Sylvain has ever tasted. When at last they reach the fruit, Sylvain finds himself almost too full to continue—but the juice from the blackberries stains Dimitri’s fingers, and there’s just enough heat left in him to lick his Alpha clean.

Sylvain dozes, then; he slips in and out of sleep as Dimitri feeds himself, just as ravenous as Sylvain had been. Silence sits comfortable between them, broken only by the shifting of plates and Dimitri’s quiet chewing. Sylvain finds he enjoys the companionship, contentment blooming soft in his belly.

When Dimitri finally curls himself around Sylvain’s huddled form, he lets himself be pulled along. If they need to talk—about the knot, the bite, the airy glow that Sylvain feels surround them both—they’ll do it in the morning. For now, Sylvain might rest upon his fantasy a while longer.

**Author's Note:**

>  **comprehensive summary:** When Dimitri leads a raid on Sylvain's village, Sylvain’s father sells Sylvain in return for his own life. An Alpha Dimitri takes an omega Sylvain as his heat companion, something that Sylvain is not happy about. She talks briefly with Mercedes about his past traumas, including sexual assault and rape. When he is led by guards to Dimitri’s rooms, the scent of Dimitri’s rut triggers Sylvain’s own heat. Sylvain suffers a panic attack before being escorted the rest of the way to Dimitri’s chambers. He decides that “suffering through it” will be easier and more beneficial than fighting Dimitri. Dimitri struggles with his own bad feelings about the situation. Upon some messy negotiation, during which Sylvain takes charge, they have sex and both enjoy it.
> 
> THANK YOU, THANK YOU all for reading! if you enjoyed, please consider leaving a comment--they're always appreciated. ;) if you'd like, you can follow me on twitter [@nishtabel](https://twitter.com/nishtabel).


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